


the butch of blavikan

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Drabble, F/F, Joyvember, Lezbinz?, geralt's a sword butch, thats his new gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: She’s laughing again. When she’s happy, she laughs. She told him so herself.When he’s hungry, he eats. He will tell her after, when his mouth is not so full of her.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	the butch of blavikan

**Author's Note:**

> cross-posted from tumblr but want it separated on ao3  
> https://stillmadaboutpetra.tumblr.com/post/634498863054700544/stillmadaboutpetra-witcher-au-where-instead

* * *

Renfri’s eyes are on him. It’s not enough. As wide as they are, fawn-dark and full of paths not taken, they are not enough. Her touch - a finger on his thigh. Nearly. Her promises of death and blood; so close. Her kiss.

Geralt tries not to fly apart with the soft press of her mouth on his. He wants to stop, to ask her of her madness, to say, what two beasts are we - will they howl, will they chorus - does he taste of clay to her, of something sculpted and made in a dark kiln. She tastes like malt. She weighs nearly nothing atop him.

“Renfri.”

Her hand, bold, vicious, thin-fingered and calloused, finds his cunt and cups his mound through his pants. He laughs at her shock.

“What did you expect?” His voice rumbles so low her bones rattle with it.

Absurdly, she laughs, shakes her head, the short of her curls catching in her surprised smile. The long of them tangling with the wrinkles of her cloak. “You surprise me, Witcher.”

“Comes with the territory.” Better it he surprise than he terrify. He touches her slowly, forgivingly, and brings that surprised palm of hers to his mouth to kiss the center of it, wondering if he could taste the hilt of her sword under his lips. He licks to find out. She flinches but laughs again, forgivingwith her eyes.

They undress there, by a low burning fire that’s wet-warp smoke. Renfri’s cunt slides wet on his thigh; her knee rubs into his throbbing clit. She does have beautiful fingers, despite the world, despite the things her hands have done. They slip easily into him when he holds her above him, when she sits higher and higher on his chest until he is drinking the malt of her into his mouth, the heavy lips of her cunt suffocating him, sweetening him, making new-mess of him.

She’s laughing again. When she’s happy, she laughs. She told him so herself.

When he’s hungry, he eats. He will tell her after, when his mouth is not so full of her.

In another life, Renfri leaves him dazed in the woods. In this one, she does too. A man took everything from her. She is not the creature who forgives. He is not one to forget.

But in this one, Stregobor makes a mistake. He comes down from his tower before a blade finds Renfri’s neck. Geralt sees it in Renfri’s eyes, for they are a dark lake he will drown in, for they are perfect mirrors of evils. He sees the hand raised in the reflection of her fear, in the girl of her; sees Stregobor chanting.

He stamps a sign around them, and the air burns; and they two are gilded in golden light; neither monster, neither saint; dipped in lumen and brilliance; there is the sun, unblackended; they are the things made in the dark and brought to the light.

“Is this a choice?” Renfri asks, panting, bright, quen a halo in the pupil of her eyes.

Geralt rests his forehead to hers, nods so that she can feel it, the heaviness of his brow; his hair tangles with hers into a supplicator’s crown; he feels her eyelashes catch with his, a child’s kiss that flutters. A butterfly wing of chaos. They are the beginning of a hurricane on future-distant shores. This is a second beginning. This a coming finally arrived.

Her eyes are closed, so Geralt misses it when Stregobor stumbles where he stands; when his hand spasms with a different pain. A numbing. An undoing.

He kisses Renfri as a sorcerer who unbecomes girls goes to his knees and then his back and is left sightless under the pale sun. They kiss still, when the crowd comes.

“Geralt!” Marilka grabs his arm. “You need to leave.”

Marilka’s right. Renfri smiles at her.

“I’ll kill you if you come back here,” Marilka promises Renfri, chin jutted up, uncut neck a red warning.

“That’s the spirit,” Renfri laughs because she is happy.

Butch of Blavikan, they say. A girl lives that day.


End file.
